


Passing The Sword

by anniespinkhouse



Series: The Unsuitable Slave [2]
Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: AU, Angst, D/s, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Schmoop, Serious Illness, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:51:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anniespinkhouse/pseuds/anniespinkhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Master!Jensen and Slave!Jared. This is a world where the only monsters are men. Every legend has a beginning and an end. This is the very last adventure of Unsuitable Slave’s Prince Jared and Prince Jensen, as told from Dean Winchester’s POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passing The Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to meus_venator and sylsdarkplace for reading this through and making it so much better. I know it wasn’t easy! Any mistakes remain my own, I tinkered with text during posting, so if you spot a typo don’t be shy to point it out.
> 
> This fic might never have seen the light of day if it hadn’t been for the amazing art made for it by meus_venator. You’re so generous and talented bb.  
> How could I not share it all? 
> 
> The art post is http://meus-venator.livejournal.com/24334.html with bonus banners and icons, so go give her some love! (Or kick her for setting me off ...)
> 
> Disclaimer: This is fiction, pure fantasy folks. Nobody here belongs to me and they’re not likely to get in my van for candy any time

Dean and Sam Winchester dismounted at the same time, with the same fluid grace. They stood at the top of the meadow, gazing down at its flower-dotted and tangled grass, both of them lost in thought.

 

They stopped here sometimes, between hunts. The toll-house where they used to live stood abandoned and decayed, covered with creeping ivy, but they spared it barely a glance. They had noted the old manor house as they passed it by, but its glory was faded too. It had been converted into soldiers' barracks soon after the Laird had been incarcerated for his crimes.

 

They’d met King Joshua and Queen Meghan in this meadow once. Sam and Dean Winchester had been young, too young, at the time. They had been exhausted, blood spattered, overwhelmed and grieving. The royal delegation hadn’t seemed remarkable to Dean then. The Queen and her King mourned the passing of their kin, the same as any other person, and they’d stood side by side with Dean and Sam, the physik and Granny Eowyn when cold earth filled a grave and flowers marked a silent space.

 

Now, old soldiers of the Royal Guard trained nearby, quietly watching over a small village and tending the sweet meadow which was both remembrance and sanctuary. Today, the sky was clear blue and the sun was high and bright in the sky. A breeze ruffled Sam’s hair and scented spring blossom drifted on the grass and settled by a modest stone marker. Sam raised his face into the warmth and shaded his eyes. Dean knew he was thinking how Jared and Jensen would have liked to sit out here on such a day.

 

Sam sometimes said there was so much evil in the world he felt he could drown in it. As many bandits, brigands and gangs as they put down, there were always more victims, more places and more  _evil_  demanding their attention.

 

So once in a while, when their destination brought their journey close, Sam and Dean came here to think, to breathe deep and gain perspective. To remember the how and why of their lives and to remind themselves that perfect love can still exist in the midst of the chaos and turmoil of the life that had been passed to them.

~~~~~~

 

Sam was too thin, thought Dean, as he broke another chair into pieces and fed the sturdy oak seat into flickering, orange flame. His eleven year old brother sighed and flicked brunette bangs from his face as he stirred the gruel, and Dean stopped to rub his shoulder. It was the only reassurance he could give and he knew it wasn’t enough.

 

“We’ll have no furniture left, Dean,” Sam whined.

 

“What is furniture without family?” Dean’s reply was too quiet, too broken.

 

Sam raised the spoon and the lumpy mixture dropped with a plop, back into the pot. “Are you going out there again, tonight?”

 

“Yeah. The bad men won’t be back, not yet. The windows are boarded. You barricade the door and turn out all the lights. Stay quiet, Sammy.”

 

Sam pouted. “Why? If the banditos won’t come? And what if Ma and Pa come home? How will they get in?”

 

Dean’s face darkened, deep green eyes closed briefly before he spoke again, “May as well accept that Ma and Pa aren’t coming back, Sammy. It’s just you and me now.”

 

“And the rest of us? The physik and Granny Eowyn, and my friends at school? We’re all still here, Dean.”

 

Dean patted his little brother on the back and feathered his other hand around the heavy old sword his father had given him on his fifth birthday, “That they are, Sammy. I’m here too, I’ll look after you. That’s my job isn’t it? Look after my pain in the ass little brother.”

 

They ate their meal without enthusiasm but every drop was licked from the bowl and their stomachs still grumbled. Sam cleaned the dishes without Dean asking and hid his tearful hazel eyes behind his long bangs. He sat on his bunk in the corner of the kitchen and drew his knees to his chest. “Do you think they’ll meet you on fine horses, in crimson capes, carrying shining swords of magic steel?”

 

Dean sat carefully on the side of the bed and reached to card his hands through Sam’s hair. He drew breath before recounting the familiar bedtime story. “They’ll ride on fine unicorn stallions. Their weapons will shine with sharp blade and magic.”

 

“Tell me more about them, about the Child and his Master, Dean.”

 

“They ride faster than the North wind. They wear clothes of fine leather and silk. The Child is a giant tree of a man and yet he moves with the stealth of a fox. His Master is taller than any mere mortal, his eyes flash emerald with vengeance and he pounces with the grace of a tiger. No bandit can defeat them.”

 

Sam joined in now, to mouth the words of a well-versed legend with his big brother, “Together they hunt as one, swifter than a cheetah, stronger than a work-horse and deadlier than a pack of wolves, to cut down the guilty and rescue the innocent.”

 

“Yeah, Sammy. Yeah. Now, lock and barricade the door after me and don’t open it for  _anything_ until I return, in the morning …”

 

“And if I don’t come home, don’t come looking. Take the old cart and take everyone South. Keep moving and don’t stop until you’re in Ty’Bont.” Sam joined in with Dean’s words and tried not to cry. “You’re coming back though, Dean, right?” his bottom lip wobbled as he asked the question.

 

“Of course and I’m going to bring the Master and his Child with me, you’ll see.”

 

Dean wrapped a scarf around his neck, pocketed a knife and lifted his sword before walking out of the door and closing it behind him.

 

“They’re a myth, Dean,” Sam said, too quietly to be heard. He knew the real purpose of Dean’s departure. His fifteen year old brother would be standing watch for what was left of the village, alone again that night. 

 

***

Hypnos crept over the horizon, huge and almost fully formed. Nyxos was a thin sliver of white light and dark clouds scudded across the sky creating moving shadows and flickering light. Stars were revealed and hidden by the whim of the cold North wind.

 

Dean stood at the crossroads beside the toll-house that was their home, and waited. His toes chilled and his hands were stiff with cold but he kept his eyes wide and scanned each way, the same as he had done for the past twenty nights. There was a rustle in the copse behind him and Dean swirled around, sword at the ready, but a small deer stepped into the pathway, twitching its nose, eyes wide, poised for flight. Leaves shook as it made its way back into the wood and Dean resumed his watch. Overhead, an owl swooped in silhouette across the moons and hooted dolefully.

 

In the early hours Dean blew into his hands for warmth and stamped his frigid feet. Winter was coming and it would be harsh. In only seven nights the moons would both rise full, marking the last of Autumn, and then there would be frost and ice. With their livestock stolen and the adults of the village taken by bandits for sale to slavers, the crops lay untended, larders empty. The bandits would be back at any time, to pick off vulnerable children, make them grateful for an owner’s mercies and hot food. It was likely they were being watched even now, that any escape attempt would be cut off with them all taken. All except Granny Eowyn and the physik. They were too old to be of any worth and Dean shuddered to think of their fate.

 

Dean’s eyelids were heavy and his breath huffed steamy curls as chilly dawn broke bright streaks in the sky. _Sammy’s safe for another night_ , he thought, but the Master and his Child hadn’t come. He hadn’t expected them to, not really. They had been a legend even in his father’s day, when brigands and ghosts roamed over freshly dug battlefields and the scars of war still ran deep. Dean had written the letter anyway, in careful, bold writing and optimistically addressed it as myth decreed. He had waited at the crossroads to have the Queen’s courier snatch it from his hand as he galloped his way to Venne through their toll-gate. Still, magic wasn’t real and even if it was, there was no reason for fortune to favor their remote village.

 

He was still musing when he heard a horse whinny and felt the cold threat of steel against the back of his neck. Dean cursed his carelessness and tears pricked at the thought of Sam, alone in their house.

 

“What do we have here?” It was spoken in a low gravelly drawl, spiced with amusement. Dean wouldn’t snivel. He wouldn’t let bandit scum have the satisfaction. He ignored the sharp danger and drew his own weapons, the short bronze dagger and the heavy, old sword.

 

“Oh, my! A brave one. Perhaps he’d like to duel?”

 

There was the clatter of a second horse and Dean looked up, and up, and up at a tall, gaunt man with a mop of faded brown hair astride a fine and sturdy bay stallion.

 

“He’s a mere kitten with his toys, don’t tease him, Jen.” The statement ended in a cough and the man doubled over his reins, spitting red-flecked phlegm to the floor.

 

“I am Dean Winchester and I am no kitten.” Dean gritted his teeth, whirled on his heel and, with a clang of metal and the flow of raw anger he faced his opponent and fought. He held on with good defence and fast footwork but in the end it was no match for an experienced fighter with a superior weapon. He was downed into the dirt within minutes, held firmly with one knee in his back and his arm locked.

 

“You know I think there may be hope in this mission, Child. The boy reminds me of someone I once knew. A real stubborn firecracker.”

 

Dean took a moment to digest the words and the breathy chuckle of the man who had stayed on his horse. His weapons were removed from him and he was pulled to his feet. Hands brushed the dirt from his clothes and he was looking at a tall, broad and muscular man with sparkling green-gold eyes, salt and pepper flecked hair and deep laughter lines in an aging face. He was weather-worn yet fit and Dean estimated that he had to have near forty Summers.

 

It was hard to estimate the age of the man on the horse. His hair lacked the grey tint of the other and yet his face seemed somehow pinched and without vigor. He leaned from his horse and passed Dean an envelope with twig-like, yellowing fingers. The writing was his own and he caught his breath, hardly daring to hope.

 

“You wrote to us for help, Dean Winchester.”

 

“Yes, but you’re …,”

 

“Tired and hungry,” grinned the man still gripping Dean’s arm, “We should stable our horses and rest a little before you tell us your woes and we formulate a plan.”

 

“He really does sulk if you call him old,” added the brunette on his horse, “So it is better if you call him Jensen, and I am Jared or Child.” The voice trailed off and became hard to hear but the wind carried it far enough for Dean to discern his words.

 

“I do not sulk, you impertinent boy.” The Master scowled up at his Child.

 

“Do.”

 

“I should spank you.” Jensen was looking fondly at Jared as he spoke and Dean wondered at the affectionate banter.

 

“Promises, promises.” The one called Jared winked back at his friend in an inappropriate manner and coughed again.

 

“We should get Child somewhere warm, to rest. You have shelter?” enquired the one called Jensen.

 

Dean closed his gaping mouth and tried to stop staring at them. Now the light was increasing he could see the softness of Jensen’s leather jerkin, his wool and silk layers. Their horses were thoroughbred stallions and their weapons, finest shined steel, with jewelled hilts. Dean gulped. “Are you really the Master and his Child?” he managed to ask.

 

“Yes, but I hope you don’t believe everything you are told,” Jensen smiled, “We are only mortal and everyone ages.”

 

Dean led the way, he knocked a signal on the toll-house door and Sam opened a cautious gap. “De?” he queried, with a tremor in his voice, as he noted the strangers with his brother.

 

“Open up, Sam, cut some bread. It’s them, Sammy, I told you they’d come. I said they’d rescue us, didn’t I?” 

 

Sam opened the door wide and peered out with wide eyes, “But they’re …” Dean kicked his brother’s shin, “Ow!”

 

“ _Real_ , Sammy,  _real_  is what you meant to say.”

 

***

Dean pretended not to see Jensen help Jared from his horse, or the tremble that wracked the frail body as he rested against Jensen’s shoulder with not a gap between them, each pace taken in step. “He needs a bed,” the old warrior grated out and Sam dashed ahead to clear his own bed by the fire.

 

“M’fine, be better after sleep,” mumbled Jared, but Dean had to wonder how much better, _better_  would be. In the firelight Jared’s skin was sallow and leathery, tight over bones which stood starkly in relief. His hazel eyes were sunken and yellowing, and his chest heaved with the effort of each rattling lungful of air, yet his dry lips still turned upwards with a soft look at the man supporting his meager weight. 

 

Dean’s shoulders fell and he tried not to show his dismay but he knew what Sam saw. This was no rescue. There were no legendary heroes, just more mouths to feed and an invalid to protect.

 

Jared’s eyes closed almost the moment his head was on the pillow. Sam gently placed a soft blanket over him before retreating to heat a kettle of water over the fire. Jensen sat by Jared’s side, stroking at his hair. A wedding ring glinted on Jensen’s finger and Dean noted with curiosity, that it matched a ring, too big for withered fingers, that was held by fine leather cord around Jared’s neck. Jensen placed a tender kiss on Jared’s forehead and whispered “Good Boy,” in his ear. It seemed like a deeply private moment between the two older men so Dean crept out to tend to their horses and fetch their belongings in.

 

The food that Jensen pulled from his packs was quick to soften Dean’s disappointment and Sam moaned and smacked his lips as he ate the cured meat and pickles Jensen provided. Jared lay listless on the bed and Jensen told Dean that Child wouldn’t eat. The old warrior produced a pouch of herbs and brewed a strange green tea which he sweetened with honey and fed patiently to his friend, sip by sip.

 

“He’ll sleep now. Can you gather all the weapons in your house, clean and sharpen them, and stay with Jared? Dean can show me the lay of the land and introduce me to the others?” Jensen addressed Sam as if he were an adult and Sam nodded enthusiastically, pleased to be a part of something positive at last.

 

“We can ask the physik to take a look at Jared while we plan,” offered Dean, with a glance back at the pale man on the bed.

 

Jensen’s brows dipped and his eyes misted just before he wiped at them with the back of his hand, “It’s kind of you Dean, but Jared has been poked and prodded enough. We’ll see this through and I think that helping you will ease his pain. When there are no bandits left alive to terrorize your village, then perhaps we will rest.”

 

***

When they returned from the short tour of the village, Jensen insisted that Dean sleep, saying he would need to be sharp for the work that lay ahead of them. For the first time in weeks he let himself sleep deeply, confident that Jensen would wake him if necessary. When he woke again, it was evening but a little light remained. Jensen and Dean scouted the area together, examined the layout of the village in detail, and the routes that the bandits could use to attack it. A rota was organized for look-out duty and a warning cry, like the screech of a wild animal, was devised.

 

The next morning they logged weapons and Jensen had the older children wield what they were comfortable with. Several were passable archers and a few more had been taught swordsmanship by fathers who had returned from a war twenty years earlier. Some of the small children were clever and stealthy at hiding. Jensen seemed alert for any signs of the gang but they were never visible in daylight. Dean knew they would be waiting though, guarding the roads that led away. It occurred to him to wonder how Jensen and Jared had bypassed them.

 

“Their sentry was as tired as you were,” explained Jensen. “It was easy to skirt around him. I don’t think we will get all of you through the same way. “I have sent for help but it is likely that the gang will want to return for the rest of you before Winter settles. It is enough time to have smuggled your parents to the slavers in the North and for the traders to return for you. How can you be sure they will come back? Surely they would have taken you before now?”

 

Dean had expected the question and was ready with the answer, “They want us to think that, but I have heard that this is what they do. It is easier than keeping us tied and having to feed and guard us. What can children and the sickly do to protect themselves? We cannot defend ourselves against such a number of fierce criminals and we don’t have the means to cross the mountains that skirt this valley.”

 

I’m not sure if troops will get here in time. Why didn’t you ask your Laird for assistance? He must have men.”

 

Dean frowned, “There has been a village raided every year for the last five years and the Laird’s men have never arrived. There are many who say he takes payment from the bandits.”

 

Jensen shook his head and scowled. “The Laird needs a lesson but I think it will not fall to us. It can be arranged. For now, we will work on drawing the bandits into the open.”

 

“They’ll kill us all.”

 

“You are no value to them dead and we shall kill them first, Dean. They won’t be expecting that.”

 

For a moment Dean thought he saw the years fall away from the warrior. Jensen stood solid and determined, his chiselled jaw set and his expression resolute. The sun glinted on the scattered golden tips of his hair and his freckles seemed to dance over his nose.

 

“I don’t know how,” protested Dean.

 

“You’ve already got it Dean, the courage, the killer instinct, and you’ve stayed strong, led the others. You’ll do fine, just you see.”

 

***

Jared was out of bed when they returned to the toll-house for lunch. He sat on the doorstep with a cup of hot coffee and angled his face to the sun, “I needed to be outside,” he explained to Jensen as the warrior sat beside him and tangled his fingers into the gnarled leathery hand.

 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up as the men held hands.

 

“Do you think you can handle some tuition?” asked Jensen.

 

“Of course I can,” replied Jared, with dimples showing as he nudged Jensen in the ribs. “We should go somewhere that can’t be overlooked by the bandits though.”

 

Sam had come to stand by Dean. He stood on tiptoes to whisper quietly in his brother’s ear, “They’re married.”

 

Dean swatted at him, “I know. I saw. They have rings.”

 

“No, Dean. I mean married. To each other. Jared told me.”

 

“Don’t be …” Dean snapped his attention to the two older men just in time to watch Jensen slip a hand around the back of Jared’s neck and pull him in for a long lazy kiss, eyes only for each other, “Oh, right, yes.”

 

Sam pulled Dean away, “Give them a moment.”

Life settled into a routine for the next few days. Sam organized the supplies that the Master and his Child had brought and searched the larder of every home to make sure everyone was fed well enough to be strong for their fight. Dean and Jensen made plans, spied on the bandit’s camp, accounting for every villain and his habits. They rallied everyone to ensure they had a task. Even the smallest child could gather stones for a sling. Well into the night Jensen would coach Dean in all manner of tactics and strategies, many that could have no impact on their current situation. He passed his knowledge and experiences to Dean with a sense of critical urgency and Dean took care to listen to every word.

 

Several times each day Jensen pulled his herb rolls from his pack and made a tea blend that smoothed Jared’s pained frown and sent him to sleep for hours. When he woke he was refreshed for several hours at a time and Jensen would stay close. Their hands touched constantly, as if in need of reassurance that the other was there. Sometimes, when he was feeling well enough, Jared would join them in their sparring sessions in the flower filled meadow behind the house. He would sit to watch, give advice and instructions in a gritty voice punctuated with coughs, and occasionally he would stand to correct Dean or Sam’s stance. He’d let the breeze ruffle his hair and be distracted by flocking birds or by the falling of golden leaves from the trees. In the evening Sam and Dean went back to their house and left the old warriors together, gazing up at the stars and moons.

 

Jensen wrote a letter. He sealed it with hot wax and stamped it with an impressive heraldic symbol which Dean was sure he’d seen before but simply couldn’t place. Sam asserted that it was the royal seal of the Ackles House of Adomisa, and both of them wondered what that could mean. Jensen sent Sam to meet the Queen’s courier with the letter and words of advice for the Queen’s man to take a safer trail, away from the bandit’s den.

 

They made plans for the day of the two full moons and Dean couldn’t bear to let Sam out of his sight. They took their parent’s bed from the room that held the scent of their mother’s perfumes and they settled it in the parlor. They curled in each other’s arms, taking warmth and comfort from each other, while the Master and his Child tangled together squashed in bunks, side by side in the snug kitchen. Dawn would inevitably find Jensen and Jared awake in the meadow. A blessing for the sun, the moon and the stars could be heard from Jared where he rested between his Master’s legs, leaning with his back against Jensen’s chest. Jensen clutched a blanket around his husband resting one hand on the brand over his heart, while his lips kissed the back of Jared’s neck.

 

“Do you think Jared is dying?” Sam made Dean jump, sidling quietly to stand beside him where he watched the two old warriors from the window.

 

“I think … , maybe,” Dean replied thoughtfully, “Does it upset you?” He ruffled his brother’s hair.

 

“I don’t know, I mean they’re old, aren’t they? But it makes me sad for Jensen. They don’t seem to be separate. Everything they do, is just, together, somehow matched.” They continued staring at the Master and his Child, and Sam continued, “Why do you think they came to help us, with Jared so ill?”

 

“Beats me, kiddo. I guess they wanted to.”

 

“I thought at first they couldn’t do it,” mused Sam, “But sometimes, when you are with Jensen, Jared wakes for a while and the pain won’t let him sleep. He tells me about  _them_. They started as enemies in the Long War, fought each other, and then Jared was Jensen’s slave, his  _Child_  and they fought together. They were together through the siege of Venne, and have stood together ever since. It is true that they brought Morgan back for trial. They destroyed the brigands’ den at Tynbach and pulled children from the ruins of the earthquake in Bensen.” Sam’s eyes sparkled with the memories of swashbuckling stories that had been told to him. “I don’t think it matters that they are old and Jared is frail, I think the Gods favor them. They will help us out of this, Dean. I know it.”

 

“I think so too, Sammy.”

 

***

The night before the ‘ _big fight’_ , as the children had dubbed their escape attempt, Dean was unable to sleep. He crept into the kitchen for a slice of bread and some water and stopped when he heard Jensen laugh nervously and a coughing fit from Jared.

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said, turning to show his tumbler, and he almost fell over his feet in an attempt to run from the room or close his eyes and ended up doing both. “Sorry,” he apologized to Jensen. Dean had never had sex, he’d certainly never thought of sex between men, but their naked loving embrace and Jensen’s cock buried balls deep in Jared didn’t really leave any room for doubt. The quiet, “Awkward,” whispered by Jensen as Dean scurried from the room cemented the opinion, and he  was blushing cherry red as he climbed back into bed with Sam.

 

The day dawned bright with sunshine and Dean’s interruption the night before wasn’t mentioned by anybody. Jensen settled his husband back to sleep while he readied the villagers for their tasks. The pain lines didn’t leave Jared even in his slumber, and Jensen stopped in his work regularly, to return to him, stroke his husband’s face, brush a hand down his arm or kiss him gently. When the mission was set to go, Jensen shook Jared softly and they leaned their foreheads together, speaking too low for Dean to hear. Jensen untied his blue roll of powders, herbs and poisons and extracted a tiny bottle of tincture which he put to Jared’s lips. “Good boy,” he said, as Jared swallowed the clear drops with a grimace. Within minutes Jared’s face had flushed pink, with high spots on his cheeks and there was an unnaturally intense shine to his eyes. He moved faster and more easily than he had in all the time Dean had seen him. Jensen reached into their baggage to withdraw a sword of shining steel, with a hilt of dazzling ruby and Jared took it with a wide dimpled smile, flexed his arm and tested its weight in his scrawny hand. “Feels good,” he said.

 

“The stimulant is temporary, Child, don’t overstretch yourself. That’s an order.”

 

“No, Master.”

 

“My good boy.”

 

Dean watched the interaction and contemplated the strange but close relationship. He hoped he’d love and be loved like that one day.

 

The children were put into the covered cart and they made a show of covering themselves with tarpaulin, pretending to hide, for the bandits to see. The physik offered to drive. Dean hitched a steady horse and then an open carriage was prepared with empty boxes to resemble supplies and Granny Eowyn took the reins of that. Jensen and Jared stayed hidden beyond the edge of the road.

 

They set out on their journey and at regular intervals, as the cart wound around bends by the deep cover of thick evergreen, it slowed and children jumped out. The smallest ones ran to duck and hide, older children clutched their weapons to run alongside, out of sight. They waited for the bandits to attack.

 

The children didn’t talk among themselves. There wasn’t a sniffle or laugh. There was only desolate silence to the trail, broken by the crunch of wheels and footfall of the horses. When the trail wound into a narrow pass, the noise was suddenly deafening, the confusion frightening. The bandits thundered heavily into their path, cursing loudly and swinging heavy weapons with malice. They surrounded the carts, breaking the wheels and leaped upon them, advancing on the covered shapes within. Granny Eowyn and the physik drew sharp blades for show, but they knew they stood no chance alone against the marauders. They threw themselves from their seats and cowered on the road, hoping they would be spared long enough to join the fight that had been plotted.

 

Sam counted the bandits riding towards them down the track, and wished for there to be a good number crowded in the pass as it narrowed. Vigilant children waited for a signal. When the count of nine was reached, two children raised their hands, one at each side of the trail, to flip up and secure the thin wire that had been prepared during the night. Thugs sailed in untidy heaps through the air as their horses stumbled and they were shocked to be beset by an assortment of crazed youths with sharpened blades and fierce vengeance. None of the bandits responded to the whoosh of burning arrows through the air and they didn’t notice the ‘whumpf’ of fire taking hold in the carts which were being ransacked and found empty. Screams of the burning bandits rent the air but nobody went to their aid. The villains were left to their fate, to panic and flame in screeching, pathetic bundles in the blazing carts and by the road.

 

The screams brought the rest of the gang running and Jensen, Jared, Sam and Dean waited, hidden behind outcrops of rock that the bandits would have to pass. Smoke drifted with the smell of roast flesh and sounds of pain and Dean’s heart seemed to stop for a moment when he saw Jensen look up as if in panic, then drop his sword. He seemed to freeze and zone-out, with his eyes in a wide, unblinking stare. There would be marauders on them at any moment, and Dean didn’t understand what had happened to the robust warrior. Jared was already acting though. He faced his husband and Master, cradled the proud jaw and tipped it so that gold-green eyes met bright hazel. There was reassurance and a sterner admonishment, and all that Dean could hear of it were the fragmented words “ _not_  De’ith,” and “the war is long over,” and then Jensen was reaching for his weapon, blinking and alert again, as if awakened from a nightmare.

 

It was not a moment too soon. Six brigands charged down the steep slope of the pass, running and sliding on loose rocks to reach their comrades on the trail. Dean’s stomach clenched with fear as one rounded his hiding place and he stepped out, to strike at him as he passed. The first time Dean hit his target, the slice of flesh and the spray of blood sickened him but the man was still bearing down on him, and all thought was lost to survival. He let instinct and training take over, whirled and ducked and kept his brother by his side. Jensen and Jared had placed themselves to take much of the heat of the battle and they were quickly buried at the center of a fierce melee, but it wasn’t long before Dean and Sam were battling a brigand each. Dean’s vigilance increased. He moved rapidly to fend off blows that might sideswipe his little brother. Sam was deep in concentration, careful footing and quick reflexes surprised his opponent and the eleven year old killed without regret within moments of the battle commencing.

 

There was little time for Dean to focus on anything except his own battle and Sam’s safety, but in rare moments he found himself looking to where Jensen and Jared fought, and the sight was breathtaking. They moved as if choreographed, graceful, fast and seamless. Jensen and Jared began and ended with each other and the only indication of their frailties was the tremble in Jared’s stick-thin limbs and the silver-grey shine that peppered the golden-brown of Jensen’s hair.

 

The fight seemed to go on for ever, but in reality it probably took less than an hour. The children who were too scared to fight hid by the trail, threw stones, and counted down the number of brigands as they fell, and even Granny Eowyn took a hand in distracting a few bandits with a well aimed rock or two.

 

Dean leaned with his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Nausea washed over him, and he watched as Jensen took the last villain with a thrust through the man’s thick, unwashed neck. The blood showered a crimson trail over him and the old warrior collapsed to the floor with his adversary. Jensen only stayed down for a moment before he was scrabbling to catch Jared, who swayed where he stood, shaking and pale while his hand lost grasp of the ruby hilt sword that dripped with gore.

 

“I gotcha’ Jared, m’here. Good boy, gotcha now.” He passed Jared’s sword to Sam with the short instruction, “ _You have this, Sam_ ,” and gently manoeuvred his husband to sit on the battle grimed and dusty road. Jared’s breath was ragged, his eyes unfocused and Jensen’s hands touched him all over, searching for injuries and giving comfort. Dean could only see minor cuts, grazes and bruising but the light from whatever stimulant Jensen had given him was gone from Jared’s eyes. The man who was left seemed nothing but a shadow. The Master and his Child clung to each other, there on the ground with Jared’s face buried in Jensen’s shoulder.

 

“Did we do good?” Jared’s voice was reed thin.

 

“We did good. They’re safe now, all safe, Child.”

 

It took a moment for Dean to notice the crimson pool that grew around Jensen and to consider the continued flow of blood. Sam nudged him hard, “Dean!”

 

Sam and Dean moved in together. Dean removed his shirt and balled it up. Sam gripped Jensen to separate him from Jared for a moment, allowing Dean to wad the fabric over a deep wound in Jensen’s stomach. Jensen gave a wry grin in an ashen white face, “Ben’ll be pissed. He sewed me so neatly, back in the day.” The statement made no sense to Dean but he supposed it couldn’t be the first time Jensen had taken a blade in his body.

 

Dean kept pressure on the wound and Sam grimaced at his big brother. The blood seeped and dripped through the fabric. It seemed impossible that the damage had avoided all of Jensen’s internal organs.

 

Jensen coughed and blood bubbled over his lip, “Gotta get it together and get them organized Dean. Your turn now.”

 

Dean squared his shoulders and nodded, “Sam! Fetch the physik if he lives, and have Tessa bring bandages.”  He looked around and beckoned to some of the others. Have Braedon and Granny Eowyn check everyone’s injuries. Nina can find where the little ones are hiding and take them back to the village. Give them bread and milk and tell them gentle stories. Stoke a fire to boil water and prepare beds for Jensen and Jared.”

 

Thin fingers reached to Dean’s lips and Jared shook as he spoke, “No! Take us to the meadow. I want to see the sun set and greet the moons and stars.”

 

Jensen shushed at his husband and his head bobbed in agreement. “Make a fire near the copse, by the place where the poppies bloom, and then bring me my herb rolls and honey. Fetch two cups of boiling water and the green velvet pouch from the bottom of my bag.”  

 

The physik bandaged Jensen’s wound the best that he could manage, but the old warrior would not allow him to stitch it. The old medic busied himself with cleaning the minor cuts that Dean and Sam had received while a wood cart was lined with blankets to transport the Master and his Child. Sombre-faced children mumbled thanks and brought soft quilts and down pillows to the meadow where they were set down to rest. After a short time, they all backed off respectfully to return to the village. Only Dean and Sam remained to watch over the old warriors.

 

Jensen’s face was grey, etched with suffering and tears glinted at the edges of fading green eyes. He brewed his herbal honey tea and fed it to Jared, sip by painstaking sip before handing the cup to Dean, with murmured appreciation. Dean built a camp fire as they hugged each other close. Jensen’s hand rested over Jared’s heart and Jared’s hand tucked into Jensen’s waistband, stroking at his hip.

 

They watched the sun set in the sky and Jared slept fitfully while Jensen carded a hand through Jared’s hair and whispered in his ear. Sam and Dean, sat wordless, on the opposite side of the camp fire their sides flush and warm, knee to knee. Sam curled his fingers into Dean’s hand and gripped tight, “We should stay here, De.”  

 

Dean reached a hand around his brother’s waist and pulled him close, “Not goin’ anywhere, Sammy.”

 

Hypnos rose first, huge and round and golden yellow, with Nyxos following soon after, paler and shimmering but full and round too. The sky was cloudless and every star shone with crystal intensity. Jared stirred and curled himself into Jensen’s lap, looking impossibly small for his height. Jensen bent over his husband to wrap him close in his arms and kiss his shoulder. On the chill breeze Dean could hear their words clearly, “What if it’s hellfire, Jen? Maybe I was always damned.”

 

“You were never damned. You’re  _mine_  and I would not let that happen. See how your Gods light the moons to take you home.”

 

“They’re beautiful, Master.”

 

“You are beautiful, Child.”

 

Jared coughed, wheezy and breathless, “Still scared, though.”

 

“I know, my love.”

 

Jensen waved a hand at Dean and he came to crouch at their side. “I need the velvet pouch and the blue herb roll.” Jensen spoke through gritted teeth, and every word was strained.

 

He fetched the items and sat with Sam again, giving Jensen and Jared some space. A shaking hand dipped into the soft bag and Dean’s eyes widened when he saw the shine of a silver collar and the soft leather slave cuffs that accompanied it.

 

“Kneel for me one last time, Child.”

 

Dean was up on his feet in a moment, ready to protest, but Sam grabbed at his hand and restrained him. “Leave them, Dean. Just watch,” Sam said, in a reverent voice.

 

Jared struggled to his knees and dipped his head but he was composed, smiling and calm with the action. Jensen kneeled too, with a hand clutching his stomach and a wince of pain. The collar clicked into place smoothly, too big and yet perfect. Jensen struggled with the locks on the cuffs but they pulled snug in the end. He wiped his blood-soaked fingers on a blanket before he reached to smooth the collar at Jared’s neck. Then, with a slight groan and squeak of effort he pulled the cuffed wrists up behind Jared’s back, straining the slave’s shoulders. “Who do you belong to, Jared?”

 

“I belong to you, Jensen.”

 

“Will you take the safety of my collar and cuffs and go anywhere with me?”

 

“Of course. I am yours. I stay by your side.”

 

“Do you trust me to take responsibility for you, your body and your soul?”

 

This time Dean saw Jared’s gaze meet Jensen’s and it was steady, with a depth of trust, Dean had never before witnessed. He didn’t want to stare but he couldn’t look away from the glory of it.

 

“You know I do, Master.”

 

“Then have faith that it will always be so. Wherever you go, I will be there, and I am eager to meet your Gods, Child.” 

 

Dean wiped a hand over moist eyes and in that time the Master and his Child curled back into a close embrace. Jared rested his head in Jensen’s lap once more, with Jensen stroking his hair. When Jared’s eyes closed and the rattle of his breath lessened, Jensen signalled for Sam and Dean to sit by him.

 

Jensen spoke slowly and he stopped regularly to take pained lungfuls of air. “Dig one grave for both of us, in this meadow, where the sky will never be blocked from view and where the blossom drifts in spring.”

 

Dean opened his mouth to protest and Jensen shushed him with a finger on his lip, “It’s been a good life. Our home is together. Where Jared goes, I will be waiting and I will not change my mind.”

 

A tear slipped from Sam’s eye, “We could find a physician,” he said.

 

“Jared’s cancer cannot be cured, and I think I am not meant to be fixed this time.” Jensen put a pale hand on Sam’s knee. “I passed Jared’s sword to you and that was deliberate, Sam. His father gave him that sword to protect his people and he chose to use his natural skills for good. I see a predator in you, as I did in him. It is yours now and I feel you will use it wisely, as will Dean with mine.” He reached to his side and drew his own, crystal topped blade and proffered it to Dean.

 

“I can’t, I mean, we can’t,” Dean withdrew his hands, held them in the air.

 

“You will get older and stronger. One day you will want to avenge your parents and then you will need weapons. Who knows what you will meet along the way? And maybe you will choose to help others, and then these are trusted to be reliable. Jared’s Gods have always favored them.”

 

Sam kicked at Dean’s ankle and Dean accepted the cold steel in nervous hands. “Okay,” was the only reply he was able to give.

 

“And Dean, you must take our horses and care for them. They need a firm hand, love and attention. Jared’s is used to treats and constant chatter.” Jensen smiled down at his husband, but there was no reaction to the tease and the smile twisted as his lips fell.

 

There was a long silence and Dean wondered if Jensen had finished speaking but he hmmed and cleared his throat before continuing, “It’s all I think. Good.” The life was starting to fade from Jensen’s eyes and he slumped over Jared. Jensen seemed to surround Jared. He was beside him, on him and under him. Blood seeped and spread onto Jared’s jerkin and it was no longer clear that the blood was Jensen’s. It marked both of them with its vivid, fatal stain. “Oh, one more thing,” Jensen’s voice rallied unexpectedly from lips buried against Jared’s neck, “Put the blue poisons roll on the fire and make sure it is destroyed.  _Gods!_  Jared is  _always_  nagging me about the safety of that thing.”

 

As last words go, Dean Winchester always thought Jensen’s were rather admirable.

 

They burned the herbs with Jensen’s powders, tinctures and poisons without opening the roll. Flames flickered and danced in rainbow bright colors and the air smelled of almonds and sweet rose blossom before it all drifted away with the clean wood-smoke of the fire. Sam curled into Dean’s lap and could no longer fight sleep. Dean wrapped a blanket around them both and stroked Sam’s hair while he kept watch.

 

Jensen’s chest stilled first and his breath no longer steamed the cold night air. A little later Jared stirred, opened his eyes and looked across the meadow, but he wasn’t looking at Dean or Sam, or even the fire. A smile played on his lips and his pain lines were gone. For a moment he looked young and his eyes were no longer sunken or tired, they glimmered in the firelight, multi-hued with gold flecks in hazel. “Jen,” he said, and Dean could hear the joy in it. Jared’s eyelids closed, eyelashes rested on pale skin and he breathed out, long and calm. Dean waited for Jared’s next breath, but it never came.

 

~~~~~~

 

Dean and Sam sparred in the dip of the meadow. They worked up a sweat with the sound of clashing metal and the flash of their jeweled swords, one ruby, one crystal. When they’d finished and Sam had resentfully conceded to Dean, three rounds to two, Sam plucked two flowers from their stems, one white and one red. Dean stood back and watched as his brother placed them on the neat grave and spoke words that he had learned in their travels through the Kingdom of Adomisa.

 

They made camp and lit a fire near the place that poppies bloomed in autumn. Dean sipped at his coffee while Sam collated the rough notes of his research and scratched neat sentences, into a notebook with an inked nib. They had visited an orphanage in Bensen where the patron, an ancient and withered man with tiny stature, alabaster skin and deep brown eyes had asked about the swords that they carried and had requested them to stay awhile. Sam had returned to see him several times after that day and he had bent his head close to catch every word of Ethan’s disjointed rambles about old days in a royal court, war, and the strange story of two princes with one destiny. Sam had taken pages of notes. Dean tutted at the memory,  _Sam and his damned research_.

 

Dean decided it was time to take action. He grinned at his brother who worked with his brow furrowed and his tongue between his teeth. “Hey Sammy! I think you love your research more than me.” He gave his saddest pout.

 

Sam looked up at his brother. He shuffled his papers in his hand and rolled his eyes at Dean.

 

“C’mere, I want to watch the sun set with you.”

 

Sam huffed and glared at Dean in exasperation but he tidied his papers away. There was an amused glint in his eye, and a barely disguised smile as he plopped himself on the ground beside Dean and lay back, stretched flat on the dry, springy grass. Dean lay back with him and they both stared up at the sky.

 

“You’re doing the right thing,” Dean admitted, “Nobody knows what they did, how much they gave for us to have peace. Their story should be written, for the generations that come after us. That has to be right, right?”

 

“Mmhmm.” Sam grunted in agreement and they both rested in comfortable silence for a while before Sam interrupted the quiet, “Back then, I thought they were so old,” he commented.

 

“Yeah, well, we were just kids and the war took a whole generation before them, how were we to judge?”

 

“Jared had only thirty-six summers when he died. I don’t want to die that young, Dean. Don’t want you to die.” Sam sounded sad.

 

“You want to retire to a cottage with a white picket fence?” Dean rolled on his side and propped himself on his elbow to look into Sam’s face.

 

Sam huffed, “Nah. Hunting villains, saving people. It’s what we do isn’t it?”

 

Dean let out a relieved sigh, relaxed and settled himself back down to watch the clouds that drifted in the sky.

 

Sam reached for Dean’s hand and held it in his own huge and warm palm, “I think Prince Jared and Prince Jensen would have liked it here today,” he remarked.

 

Dean squeezed his brother’s hand and smiled.

 

~End~

**Author's Note:**

> authors note: What can I say? I never expected to write death fic. One of the reasons I never anticipated a timestamp for this was because I always knew what it had to be. Then I guess my mind was set off with the beautiful and unexpected art for the main story and the boys would not let me alone. To all my readers who stayed, thankyou for reading and I am truly, truly sorry .... *runs away*


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